Redecorations
by Mewsman
Summary: He's had enough. The perfect time is now, and it is time to act. It is time to... redecorate.


In the end, he decided to do it the _normal_ way, if not for the sweet irony then for the lesser amount of evidence. After the _organization _hadwarned his relatives off, threatening them, even, he was no longer kept under lock, not even at night; a fatal piece of their undoing.

Rather recently, his Uncle had brought home a supposedly _antique _ebonyclock, which stood for all to see in the living room; another pivotal part in the sinister plot.

It was an old monstrosity, no doubt, but qualify for an antique it did not. Neither did it matter. It had to be swiveled up daily, a task which most often fell to him; he had taken to delay it beneath his _family's _notice, often making a mess out of timetables. He'd just chuckle silently and wish for the new semester to come. But today, of all days, he had set it correct. Glancing over at the barely ticking watch resting besides his bed, he came to knowledge that it was eleven and a half hour since he had last turned the clock, and that it would tick for twelve and half more. Quiet as the dying light he slipped out of bed, where he had been resting since early evening to prepare himself, he dressed quickly; choosing clothing with a dark color scheme, as he found it fitting for the foulness that would surely occur shortly.

His door opened without a sound, as he had been recently tasked to greasing up all the hinges in the household, and had utilized stealth to fix-up his own as well. Staying undetected was of essence, now. He forgot about this rather quickly as he started down the stairs, humming on a song he had heard on the radio this afternoon; _Good Old Lover Boy, _or something like that. The tune found him in this dark hour, and he happily agreed with it's melodic going, enjoying the break from silence. It did not agree with him.

He passed his old bedroom, now, the mere sight of it feeding his furnace of malice and anger, so he quickly stepped away; lest he ruin his delicate ploy.

Swift feet bore him to the living room, where a low hum emitted from the electronics; while he may not enjoy the sound of silence, such mundane noise were above him, and he had them swiftly unplugged. He'd prefer a more violent approach, but it was not yet time for such.

Before he allowed himself to be carried to the kitchen, he glanced at the watch; it was large and dark, a looming shape if he'd ever seen one. And he had.

It ticked down ever so slowly, counting every second and every minute. In three and twenty minutes it'd strike midnight, and there would come from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and hauntingly musical, but of such a peculiar note and emphasis that the household would stop, freeze in their activities while the monotonous drawl of the clock carried through the thin walls of the suburban dwelling; then it would again quieten into a faint echo of it's past disturbing glory, the clang fro and to as the pendulum swung.

That was when he passed into the darkened kitchen, and his moment frozen in horror was gone, the decisiveness returning the very moment his weary, green eyes left the abrasive clock.

He ventured over tiles he'd polished himself, and threw open a drawer; his eyes savoring each and every blade, then gliding onto the next shining edge.

After, he'd rationalize his decision by his realization that the household held no knife sufficient of the task at hand; no butcher's knife would make it's way into the classy housing of these fine folk; the ruffian nephew forced to cook and clean making do with lesser blades, struggling even more than he would have, had proper equipment been provided.

He had shrugged, then, and unlocked the back door. Outside, it was drizzling slightly, but the tight grasp of summer held on tightly, still, and it was comfortable to walk in the quiet rain. He payed no mind to his raven hair drenching, his glasses taking on a cover of droplets; he was headed for the tool shed, and no weather would stop him; a drizzle or a snowstorm, nature could be damned. Nurture called.

This door had not had it's hinges greased, but a look over his shoulders showed him that no windows stood open; he would not be heard, and thus opened the creaky door fully, smiling at the welcoming darkness of the shed.

His legs once more led him inside, he'd been here before, on the same mission many times. This time, he intended to complete it all the way through, and ace it with flying marks. He flicked a switch, and a lightbulb flickered to life, slowly, like in great pain.

He felt sad at losing the friendly, encompassing dark, but he required light to search out the object he required; a rubber handle, it would have, while the head was metal; one flat and the other, sharp.

Knowing the place well, having done all kinds of labor for his _relatives _in his period of time with them, he found the hammer quickly. It felt good in his hands, finally wielding a weapon once more, the rubber molding to his firm grasp. Experimentally, he swung it, and felt a sudden weariness, at once certain he would fail this time, as well.

The hammer felt wrong, and he would never be able to use it; he placed it back where he found it, and turned to leave; the clock in the living room would sound out in no less than six and ten minutes, a few seconds short of an accurate calculation.

But it would not mater to the boy, for his eyes had found a new object of fascination; he knew his Uncle often purchased things just to impress probable customers of the place where he worked; it would much outearn the costs, of course. Such was the truth for the many things stored in here, the bag of golfing clubs, the croquet kit, the set of badminton supplies.

The roque mallets were a new addition.

He stood in the rain, swinging the mallet experimentally. His grip was good, and the head was solid; it would endure many a hit, but none the matter. The bast part for him, the sealer of the deal, was the sound the mallet made when it was swung, the _whistle _of promises. He'd fulfill them. He mustn't tell lies, after all.

Time raced by as the armed child made his way back into the house, the house that represented everything negative in his mind. He was inside, before he grinned eerily, and stepped ventured to the front door, unlocking it. Then he made his way to the back garden again, and dragged forth one of the many foldable chairs his family kept for days the sun graced it presence upon the country. He used it to barricade the back entrance securely from the outside, before heading back inside. Reaching the kitchen for the last time, he locked it from the inside, and aimed his strike; it was true, and with a whistle of satisfaction the key snapped off, rendering the door inoperable. It would remain that way, for the remainder of it's lifetime.

Three minutes snailed by on the great, ebony clock, it's time to shine but ten minutes off; the boy headed to the front door, and repeated his process. Tonight, no-one would be leaving. Then he headed for the stairs.

"Oh Uncle!" he shouted, glee and joy painting his voice with lies. Inspired by the moment, he swung the mallet viciously, the whistle high and piercing, followed by the dull _thud _of it penetrating the paper walls of this house of dolls.

"It's time to take your medicine!" he hollered on, ascending the stairs, now, not caring for creaking or stealth. That time had long passed, and the mallet smashed into a family photo, one _he _was _obviously _not included, _freak _as he was. He laughed cheerfully when it fell to the ground with loud noises. He made sure to step on it as he passed.

Now his relatives had woken up, shouts and threats of death and mutilations reaching his deaf ears, doing naught but extending an already cheshire grin; he sprang up another three steps and banged his wooden hammer twice more, ruining an extremely _ugly _vase that had stood in the staircase, and adding another hole to the plaster. Redecorations, he thought to himself, and laughed. Then his Uncle came out on the landing above him, a rifle in his hands. The two, black holes leered at him, daring to continue his disastrous path.

"Uncle, uncle, uncle," he smiled, extending his hands to his side in a peaceful gesture, "you wouldn't dare shoot me, would you?" The man on the landing, the one with the gun, shivered slightly, and cocked what he now realized was a shotgun. He had, apparently, all intentions to shoot the much younger boy; the one smiling like a demon, shaking his.. _HIS _roque mallet! The boy would pay for this, no doubt; if it even had a scratch he'd personally break both of the freaks arms.

"We have ghosts in here, Uncle, and you wouldn't want me to join them! If I did, I'd follow you wherever you'd go, moving wouldn't help you at aaaall, oh no siree. I'd find your new home, and I'd huff, and I'd puff, and I'd blow your house down!" his smile faltered, as he chuckled, somewhat mirthlessly, "and then I'd kill you. Ghosts can do that, too, you know?"

Why did I hesitate, was the thought repeating in the head of one unlucky man currently finding himself headed for a fatal nosedive down the stairs. He'd been so caught up in the lunacity of his nephew and his future dismemberment plans of said individual, that he hadn't noticed the _freak _taking a bounceful step up the stairs for every word.

He only realized it when the undoubtedly insane _boy _whispered a sweet goodbye to him, from the very step below; his finger moved to press the trigger, but the mallet hit it's target first, the savage whistle one of the last thing the unlucky Uncle thought, before his last, traitorous _Why did I hesitate. _

As the fat now-corpse rolled down the stairs, apparently suffering from acute brain-bash, the raven haired youth laughed loudly, before bellowing for the rest of his family.

He said much of how he loved them, how he wanted to make them _PAY, _how he simply wanted to make them walk in his shoes for a mile, or two, or twenty fucking three, as he continuously bashed holes in the walls, smashed down pictures or decorations and once, and only once, smashing in a lamp hanging from the ceiling, showering him, and his muddy shoes, with splinters of clear glass.

He saw his reflection in one, a vision of madness, and laughed himself on, bursting into the bedroom of his _precious _Aunt and late Uncle; his smile turning devious as he observed his most hated Aunt hiding her nude body behind a rather uncovering rug. It'd do her no good, he told her nicely, it would be better if she would just lay down so they could get this over with, but no-one ever played nicely in this house, he noticed as the handgun smoked and his leg collapsing under him, pulsating in pain.

The gun dropped to the ground, and the middle aged woman sighed in relief; crisis had been averted, now she had to see to her husband and likely contact the emergencies; she'd have to anyway, with her nephew going insane and trying to murder them all. She moved towards the door, and the fallen form of her sister's spawn; she'd have to move around it, or over it, no matter how much it scared her. Her love's life likely depended on it. She decided to step over it, as to get it over with faster.

"My, my, that looks quite dried out, Aunt. Have you not been taking proper care of it?" As she shrieked, he grappled onto one of her legs, felling her swiftly, pulling himself to his feet in the same gesture, heavily relying on his left foot, the unharmed one.

"What do we do to unruly children, Auntie?" he asked in his best imitation of her voice, before ripping away the rug she hid her modesty behind. "You punish them!" he roared, and the mallet swung savagely. The saggy, right breast was completely ruined by the powerful strike, her screams both growing and quieting down at the same time pleasing him immensely. To his further humor, he spotted the remains of a nipple in the bloody pulp that had once fed his cousin. Oh yes, his cousin, he'd better tell him he was coming.

"You still in here, cousin boy? Didn't faint in fear, did you now? I'd like you awake for what is to come, boy! You'd better be ready for whupping; I won't be holding back on you, freak!" at the end, he broke into laughter at the thought of him crudely imitating the voice of a dead father to a terrified child. Oh well, he thought, with sadness and a tint of regret that had not been present for the entire evening; they deserved it.

And thus the tool whistled, making a satisfying crunchy noise as it hit the side of his aunts head, silencing her once and for all; an eyeball popped, the greasy goo splattering all over the floor, and to his disgust, his pants. Teeth went flying everywhere, alongst with the utter part of her tongue, having been chopped clean off by her rather sharp teeth.

He listened to her drown in her own blood, lying on the perfect floor in her perfect house in the perfect neighborhood, soon dead like her perfect husband.

He thought he could make out an apology to his deceased mother in her unintelligible gurgling before he left the room, halting heavily, just in time to take a right hook straight to the face.

If not for his unnatural endurance it would likely have been the end of him; his cousin looked murderous; he'd likely observed the murder of his mother. Oh yes, and the taunts likely hadn't helped remedy the situation much, either.

None the matter for the moment, the fallen boy thought, as his overweight cousin prepared to smash his face in with his foot; no better time for a roque mallet to the privates.

The fat boy doubled over in pain, while the skinny child stood victor above; his chosen weapon of a roque mallet was long indistinguishable, a mess of wood and splinters, evidence of constant smashing of various objects and individuals. It would still suffice, though, he thought, as he spun it in his hand at great speeds, the demonic whistling stimulating needs he hadn't known required stimulation. He let it smash into the ribcage of the kneeling boy, reaching euphoria as the mallet smashed a multitude of ribs and likely a lung, if the screams of pains and sudden, wheezing breaths could be read correctly.

"So fatty-boy, do you wan't to go quick or slow, I'll let you decide as a remedy for murdering both of your parents. No-one wants to do an orphan any harm, now do they? Oh wait!" he jeered and taunted, but the last part was shouted in a furious rage, and the mallet swung again, snapping an arm like it was a twig, the overweight child squealing like a pig on the floor, wriggling in a pool of his own blood, shit and vomit. The assaulter merely laughed.

"You.." he started, having decided on a final satisfactory taunt before finish of the last of his torturers, but now it was midnight, and Harry fell to his knees. The clock rang with a sad and melancholic tune, the evil, demonic undertones hidden from his ears as he wept over the mutilated, dying boy that was the last of his family; in the flickering shadows faces leered, laughing at the macabre scene, dancing a dance of the dead and undead. In the darkness, the ghosts revealed themselves, and finally Harry realized, to his dawning horror, what had occurred here on this night; he screamed out in agony, then, wishing for it all to be a dream, a nightmare, a horrible experience meant as penance for his part in the death of his beloved Godfather.

The clock let out a mighty, final clang, and laid to rest, along with the final remnants of sanity in the body of the fresh murderer. He grasped his mallet firmly, and swung it at the fat head of _his _cousin, exploding it like a balloon in a gross shower of brain matter, bits of skull and blood. As pops outside notified the inexistent flicker of sanity deep within him of people _like him _arriving, the body with the black hair and emerald green eyes set to work at killing the very last person of the household.

As Dumbledore himself breached the door to the household to the stench of death, all he could hear was the whistling of a mallet beating on flesh. IT was a SOUND he would hear until the day he DIED, whenever the lights would go out and it'd be DARK. For when he approached the stairs and looked, all he could see was the shambling body of one Harry James Potter dancing the macabre waltz of death in a grotesque parody of a dance, all semblance of humanity wiped out by the mallet beating on what used to be a face, now a bloody, ruined pulp.


End file.
